When in Rome
by ComicalEpiphanies
Summary: "Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster." The only thing needed for evil to succeed is that good men do nothing. Unfortunately, there are times when in the act of stopping evil, good men can turn bad. The only question is: is this one of those times? Possible canon. 3rd in my "Rookie" series, but can be read alone.
1. Reality Check

**A/N: I know I said there was little chance I'd write this story, but as I've done more than once, I'm eating my words. This is Auggie's Italian mission, as set up in "Shaken Not Stirred", the story that comes right before this. I tried and couldn't allow myself to leave the story hanging like that. Under normal circumstances, I would never post this kind of story so early, especially before it's finished, but this is not normal circumstances. I leave in a little less than six weeks, so I can't afford to wait and finish my normal, rather obsessive, routine of planing, re-reading, and editing. It's rather rough, but I hope it is satisfying. I have a pretty good idea where it's going, even if I don't have the clearest picture of how to get there, but never fear, I will finish this before I leave, even if I'm writing the night before I leave. That being said, a few things to take into account: you might want to read "SNS" BEFORE this fic - it's not essential, I've tried to give you a run-down in this first chapter, but it would probably help; because I've not been able to do my routine, there might be more mistakes than you normally see in my stories, so please forgive me in advance; lastly, this is the first mission I've ever really written, so please give me a little leeway, and if you have any advice, don't hesitate to send a review, or if you want a reply (I'm terrible at replying to reviews, even if I plan to), a PM. **

**Now, without further ado, I present: **

When in Rome

Chapter One: Reality Check

August Anderson paced the plane again. He'd long ago memorized his fellow travelers and classified them into levels of threats. Top on his list was the toddler and her mother sitting three rows behind him. Three hours into the five-hour flight and she had yet to make a scene, but one could never get too comfortable.

As he neared the back of the plane, his thoughts drifted to his present mission. After nearly five months of preparations, it was almost time. In a little less than two hours now, he'd be on his way to finishing what he and his mentor, Philip Mace, had started. The weapons pipeline to al-Qaeda with its source in the two most influential mob-families in Italy was going down. Auggie was going to make sure of it.

The first two stages of the operation had already been set in motion. Late last year, CIA living legend, Mace, under the alias of Henry Callan, had successfully negotiated a shipping alliance between the Monteleone and De Luca families. A little less than a month after the contract had come into effect, the families had started to have a string of bad luck with their trades, courtesy of the CIA.

Now it was Auggie's turn. The former special-ops lieutenant was going to finish what he—as Callan's personal attaché, Augusto Aspesi—and Mace had started.

Auggie had never allowed himself to expect he'd be the sleeper who would deal the final blow. While he'd been a member of the Agency's elite group of soldiers, one of a squad of four tied to the US Army for almost three years, when he'd been transferred to the Department of European Affairs, he'd been considered a rookie. Though he had received training at Camp Peary (AKA The Farm, where civilians became agents) straight out of college, and then SERE training at Fort Bragg, his superiors had made it clear that they did not see him as a viable field agent. And looking back at his early months, Auggie had to admit they'd had a point. He'd been a soldier then, still raw from the horrors he'd seen and done. But he'd adapted, absorbed what he could. Not that that had made much of a difference until one day, Auggie made a mistake: he saved Don Alfonso Monteleone's life.

A week into the negotiations, Mace had made the call to assassinate Alfonso so that his decidedly less apt heir, Primo, would be forced to take over. Auggie, being the inferior agent whose only real job was to make Callan look more official, hadn't been in on the plan, and so when he'd seen the sniper, he'd acted. His instinct to protect should have killed his career, but Philip Mace was not a legend for nothing. He'd changed the plan, and ensured August Anderson was the spy for the job.

Since then, Auggie's life had revolved around two things: developing the two-dimensional Augusto Aspesi into a living, breathing persona, and learning everything he could from the old spy.

Fourty-two hours ago, the powers-that-be had declared the stage set. Auggie had said goodbye to his mentor, and dare he say it, friend, turned his apartment key into the Agency so that they could use it as a safe house while he was gone, and left for Scotland, the reported location of the internationally recognized negotiator's, Henry Callan's, home base. From there, Augusto Aspesi had boarded a plane destined for Rome, Italy.

Auggie was so absorbed in his pacing, he almost didn't feel the gentle tug on his pants. He glanced to his left and instantly located the culprit. The toddler had finally woken. Instead of crying, as Auggie would have expected a three year-old child to do, she'd seemed distracted by the corner of his—well, Augusto's—rich burgundy-colored, Italian passport, which was sticking out of his pants pocket. Her mother was still asleep; her arm perched protectively around her baby's shoulders.

The toddler seemed entranced by the color, her big blue eyes glued to the recycled leather. She tried to reach for it again, and this time her movement knocked her mother's arm off her shoulder, waking the woman instantly.

"Muriel!" the woman cried, yanking her head off the window to check her baby.

Muriel, or so Auggie assumed her name was, pointed at Auggie's pocket. "Pretty, Mummy, look!"

Her mother followed her daughter's finger, before looking up into Auggie's face. She blushed faintly, her fair skin tinged with red. She had a splotch on her forehead from where it had been resting on the glass, and her eyes were still fogged with sleep, her bronze hair slightly matted. Auggie noticed what looked to be a grape juice stain on her skirt, and her nice shirt was wrinkled and sporting a wet spot where Muriel had drooled in her sleep. There was no mistaking her exhaustion. Auggie instantly felt a little sorry for her.

"She loves red," she explained in a sturdy, classic Scottish accent as she caught her daughter before she could grab again. "I'm so sorry, sir."

Auggie was surprised to realize how much he welcomed the distraction from his thoughts. "I do not blame her," he replied in Augusto's strong Italian accent. He pulled the passport from his pocket—amused by the way Muriel's eyes grew even wider as she took in the gold emblazoned on the cover. Auggie had to admit it was a beautiful look.

"She is not loud," Auggie commented. He hesitated, but decided it would do no harm, and so gave the girl the passport. She took it and immediately hugged it to her. It would be difficult to get it back, but Auggie wanted to see her happy. It felt good to make someone happy for a change.

"She has had a cold for a while, so I gave her some medicine. It puts her to sleep. It must have worn off."

The two adults watched Muriel in silence for a second, before Auggie had to move out of the way for another passenger in need of the facilities. "I must return to my seat. I will get my passport when she again sleeps, yes?"

Auggie didn't like the idea of leaving his passport, but he couldn't bring himself to take it away. He was already regretting giving it to her in the first place.

"Thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done." Muriel's mother laughed without amusement. Auggie nodded, knowing what she meant.

He made his way back to his seat. When he reached it, he looked back at the little family. The woman nodded at him to show she knew where he sat, and Auggie allowed himself to sit down. He pulled out his iPod and tried to focus on the music.

Auggie had almost managed to forget everything in the wake of the smooth jazz playing in his ear, when the plane started its descent and he had to turn off his music. He'd just returned his iPod to his carry-on when a flight attendant tapped him on the shoulder.

"The lady in row fifteen said this belongs to you?" she said in Italian, holding out the passport.

"Sì, grazie." Auggie took the document, and glanced behind his seat to see Muriel and her mother. Muriel's face was contorted in grief, but she wasn't crying. She looked more shell-shocked, like she'd had a terrible epiphany. The sight constricted Auggie's chest. He turned away, gluing his eyes to the front.

Muriel's face still clouded Auggie's thoughts when the plane taxied to a stop. Then it hit him: it was show time. Like the toddler, he'd have to face reality. For a single moment, Muriel and Auggie shared the same thought: _If only I could hold the pretty colors one more time. _


	2. A Smart Man

**A/N: I have now written up to chapter five, so I felt better about posting this today. I didn't mention her help before, but once again, I owe mandy58. She's been keeping me on track, bouncing ideas and the like. As such, I have a pretty good idea where this is going, so you can be sure it'll be done by the time I leave on August 16th. **

**NOTE: I tried to make this obvious, but just in case, from now on, any dialogue is spoken in Italian unless otherwise stated. I didn't want to waste your or my time writing it in Italian. I wanted to make sure that was clear before I got some sort of flame or comment. **

Chapter Two: A Smart Man

August Anderson had ceased to exist the moment he'd stepped onto the tarmac; it had been Augusto Aspesi who ordered the taxi to take him to the little hotel in the middle of the city, and it was Augusto Aspesi who stood in front of the intimidating guardhouse at the edge of the Monteleones' villa the next day.

"I am here to see Don Monteleone," Augusto told the guard. His Italian had a hint of Spanish, the product of nearly five months of sessions with the Agency's dialect coach. According to his dossier provided by the Agency's cover department, Augusto had spent most of his adolescent life in Santiago, Spain, where his father had taken him and his mother and two brothers when he was three.

The guard's reply was rough, and he mumbled, but Augusto understood as if he were speaking English. "Does he know that?"

"No, but he'll see me."

The guard crossed his beefy arms. "Why?"

"Just tell him Augusto Cortinio Aspesi, former assistant to Signore Henry Callan, is at the gate."

The guard huffed, but did as requested. He turned his back to Augusto and lowered his voice so that he couldn't listen in. After a few, tense moments on Augusto's part, he hung up the phone and turned around. "Forgive me, signore, I didn't know."

"So he'll see me?"

"He says I am to let you in." The guard quickly opened the gate, practically bowing Augusto in. It was a strange but welcome feeling to be so suddenly revered, even if he'd been expecting such a reaction. Augusto held back the amused smile that threatened to break through his sullen expression.

A tall man in a sharp suit met Augusto at the door. He didn't appear to be a guard, and for a second, Augusto wondered what his job was. But as he neared the man, Augusto noticed his perfect posture and the air of stateliness. Trust the old, blood-money family to have a butler who was the epitome of the profession.

Augusto followed the still-unnamed butler through the ornate foyer and into a fine, elaborately decorated sitting room in silence. "You are to wait here," the man spoke for the first time. "Don Monteleone will be with you shortly." He left without another word.

Augusto sat down on the posh sofa, still shocked that the manservant was so, well, exactly what he imagined a butler would be.

~OOOOOO~

Alfonso Monteleone looked older than when Augusto had first laid eyes on him six months ago. He still had the same confident demeanor, but he was more stooped, and smaller than Augusto remembered. He looked every day and more of his seventy years. But he at least _appeared_ to be as sharp as ever.

"So Signore Callan let you go, did he?" Alfonso commented after they'd exchanged the mandatory pleasantries.

Augusto nodded solemnly. "We both felt I had learned all I could from him." That was true, for Auggie, anyway. Two weeks before Augusto Aspesi landed in Rome, Auggie had proven himself to his mentor.

"And so you came here?"

Augusto allowed himself a wry smile. "I thought you could use me."

Alfonso put his coffee cup down on the table and leaned back into the cushions of the couch opposite Augusto's. "Perhaps you are right."

Augusto felt as though someone had opened a valve in his head and released some of the pressure, but he kept himself focused. He hadn't needed Mace to tell him that most missions fail before they even begin because an operative thinks he's in the clear.

"The family isn't what it used to be. The boys—they are not so smart."

Augusto remembered how slowly Monteleone's bodyguards had reacted when Alfonso had been shot at, and how Primo, his son and the next in line to lead their branch of the mob, had constantly been a step behind during the negotiations. Alfonso was right; like any good ruler, his successor was weaker.

Alfonso suddenly sprang forward, his shrewd gaze boring holes into Augusto's rich chocolate eyes. "You, however, are not so stupid, are you?" Though it was phrased like a question, nothing about the sentence was an inquiry. "You—you saved my life."

Had Augusto not had the experience of a soldier, or the training of a spy, he would have been cowed into submission by the old man's mumblings, but as it was, he was able to force the hairs at the back of his neck to stand down.

The mafia leader continued to stare at him. Finally, just moments before Augusto would have cracked and broken eye contact, Alfonso relaxed. "It takes a smart man to know when he should be silent and when he should speak." Alfonso took another sip of coffee before he continued. "But I need a man who is more than smart. Are you more than smart?"

Augusto didn't know what he was supposed to do. He could speak, and then make himself appear stupid, or he could not speak, and reach the same result. He decided to take the chance and answered. "That depends on what you're looking for."

He breathed a welcome breath when he saw amusement flicker across Alfonso's face.

"It is good to trust a smart man, but a smart man who sees nothing is as useless as a stupid man, and it is bad to trust a stupid man. Are you a blind smart man?"

Augusto was growing tired of the man's strange brand of humor. He felt like he was talking to some sort of wannabe-Confucius, but he molded his annoyance into a mask of contemplation. "You tell me."

Alfonso appeared almost giddy at the challenge. Augusto was momentarily comforted that even if he didn't get a job, he'd at least made an old man's day. "The man who brought you in this room—where is he from?"

Augusto replayed his few minutes with the butler, focusing on his voice. He'd always had an ear for accents, even if he didn't have the tongue. He'd also learned to trust his gut, and at the moment, it was telling him it was a trick question. "He was born in Milan, but he grew up in Venice. He lived in Lyon, though, before he came to work for you—no more than five and no less than three years ago."

Alfonso looked stunned, and Augusto had to smile. "I told you Signore Callan taught me all he could. He traveled quite extensively," he explained. That was true, but he hadn't taken Augusto anywhere besides Italy. No, Augusto, or more correctly, August, had backpacked all through Europe the summer before his senior year of college, and what Auggie saw and heard, he remembered. It had merely been a matter of matching the sounds to the people he'd heard on his travels—well that, and the dialect class at the Farm hadn't hurt.

"And the guard at the gate? Was he wearing a watch?" Alfonso had forgotten his riddling in light of Augusto's current success.

"No, but only because it is broken."

"A stupid man makes assumptions," Alfonso replied, disappointment layering the statement.

"True, but a smart man tells the facts. He had a light watch tan, but no watch. He'd taken the watch off recently—otherwise his wrist wouldn't be so white. His arms are covered in fine hair, yet his wrist had considerable less, ergo he wears the watch always. Why then would he have taken it off? The only truly logical conclusion would be that it was broken, otherwise he would have put it on as soon as he realized it was gone," Augusto smoothly explained.

Without another word, Alfonso crossed the room to the only telephone in the parlor and dialed the front gate. "Are you wearing a watch today?" Alfonso asked, not entirely unkindly, but briskly. "Why not?" he added a second later. The guard's answer was too muffled for Augusto to make out, but he knew he was still talking when Alfonso hung up the phone.

Alfonso returned to his seat. After a pause, he said, "I have a job for you."

Augusto bit back a smile.


	3. Gone

**A/N: I am so sorry for the long wait. This story, as I think I've mentioned before, is not an easy one to write, especially with a deadline. I've been holding off until I could find my footing again, which I think I have. The end is written, it's just a few chapters in the middle that are giving me pain. Anyway, in this chapter you might notice a character who belongs to mandy58, first seen in her brilliant "Collide". **

Chapter Three: Gone

It hadn't come as a shock after his rather unorthodox interview to hear that Alfonso Monteleone wanted him to be his spy in the De Lucas' ranks, or when Celso De Luca had hired him almost immediately after he'd recited a story similar to the one he'd given Don Monteleone. What Augusto hadn't expected was that all new recruits to the De Luca mafia had a similar assignment in the beginning: guard Isabela De Luca, the boss' only daughter.

Under normal circumstances, Augusto would be perfectly happy to protect someone as pretty and deceptively intelligent as Isabela, but not this time. This time Augusto had more than just guard-duty to deal with. He was supposed to be gathering information for Alfonso and the Agency like a good triple agent should; he didn't have time to keep up with the beautiful Isabela who was as impulsive as the queen she was named for. As if that weren't bad enough, Isabela was used to being the tester for new minions, and she took her job to heart.

On her fourth birthday, already on her sixth bodyguard—or so the story goes—she'd slipped itching powder down her shadow's pants during her party, and the man had been fired within the hour. From there things had only gotten worse. Temper tantrums, petitions, cleverly laid traps designed to make the victim look foolish—anything to be free. At the age of ten, she'd shaken her first guard; at fifteen, she'd run away for two weeks and come back with a plan that had her father listened to her, would have doubled her family's fortune. Now at the ripe old age of twenty-five, she was a cold escape artist who still craved her father's business.

Augusto had been her bodyguard for twenty days, sixteen hours, and fifty-two minutes, and she'd already tried to shed him forty-seven times. He'd counted. After her last attempt during her weekly shopping spree in the best shops in the city, she'd changed tactics and forced him to carry all her purchases. Augusto had never held so many shoes, lacy bras, silky garments, cocktail dresses, hat boxes and only God knew what else. He was sure war was hell, but—he'd decided as Isabela had shoved yet another bag under his chin—being a packhorse was pretty darn close to purgatory.

So it was that night that Augusto collapsed onto his rickety bed in the room one of the other employees had recommended.

Augusto groaned, flipped onto his stomach, and balled his pillow around his face. If he'd known this was what he was going to have to do as the sleeper assigned to this case, he wouldn't have taken it. No, he amended almost at once, he would still have gone. These were the people supporting the enemy; these people were helping to kill his friends, his brothers—he wanted to see them dead.

Augusto's cell vibrated loudly against the scratched wooden surface of his nightstand, causing Augusto to release another frustrated, exhausted groan. But knowing it could be important, he ordered his limp arms to pick it up, and on the third ring, one finally obeyed.

"Augusto."

"You asked to be notified if she left the house?" The voice on the other end of the phone was speaking Spanish, and therefore easy for Augusto to identify as Maria. Maria was one of the maids Augusto had made a point to befriend when he'd first arrived. Mace had said the maids know everything, and he'd been right once again. Maria was one of the easier maids to get to know as she'd come from Spain and had recognized Augusto's tainted Italian.

Augusto sprang up from the bed before answering in kind. "When did she leave?"

"I don't know. Philippi says she wasn't in her room. He told me and then I told you."

Augusto checked his watch and nearly swore. He'd left her at the townhouse an hour ago, and knowing her, she'd probably left not long after. She had a good head start. He had to catch her—he needed to get her father to trust him if he had any hope of protecting his brothers-in-arms. "Gracias Maria, muchas gracias!" he replied as he shut his phone.

Augusto stuffed his feet into his shoes, glad he hadn't undressed. As he laced them, he dialed another number.

Someone answered on the first ring. "Gustavo's Pizzaria."

"Wiseguy, customer two-one-five-eight. I called to order a pizza at 2030. Is it done?"

There was a pause and a short dial tone, before, "It's secure. What's wrong?"

Augusto shrank into the background as Auggie appeared. "I need a favor."

Scott Simpson, the only techie at his desk in the whole building, looked down at his watch. He'd arrived only a second before the emergency line had rung. "Now?"

"Yeah, now. I need you to trace a number."

Scott flipped his computer out of sleep-mode and logged in. As the computer booted up, he had to ask, "You're in Italy, right? What are you doing on my line?"

Auggie wanted to rush the tech along, but he told himself to calm down. He answered as patiently as he could. "I don't know. Where are you based?"

"DPD. What's the number?"

Auggie was surprised the Domestic Protection Division would have someone in the building in the middle of night—he'd thought only the departments with possible overseas agents needed shifts—then he remembered that he was six hours behind. He shook it off and gave Scott Isabela's cell phone number.

"Tracking it now," Scott replied. "It's going to take a couple of minutes. So," he added, leaning back into his chair, "Anderson, right? I'm Scott Simpson."

Auggie just wanted to get to Isabela. He knew the longer he stayed on the line with the Agency, the better the chance he'd be caught, but it was the middle of the night, and—Auggie was almost ashamed to admit it—it felt really good to hear English again. Against his soldier instincts, he carried the conversation. "How long you been in the DPD?"

"Going on three years, but I heard some rumors there's going to be some shaking up, so maybe I'll be moved soon."

"Shaking up?" Auggie was intrigued. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I heard they were bringing in some new recruits, cleaning house—promoting, firing, that kind of thing. But that's only water-cooler scuttlebutt." Auggie heard Scott lean forward again, his chair squeaking into the phone as he, presumably, typed in necessary codes and zeroed in on Auggie's target. "Who knows," he added after a moment, "Maybe when you get back, you'll be here and I'll be promoted!"

Auggie was only half-paying attention as he paced the room. "I doubt that."

"I don't know, but my wife and I could sure use the money. She keeps hinting about having a kid. Can you imagine raising a kid on this salary? I mean, it's good that she has a job too, but law students don't rake in the big bucks. Not that techies do either. 'Course, when she becomes a partner..."

Auggie was ready to go, had been for more than a minute. "Yeah I know. Have you located the phone yet?"

Scott broke off his ramble about orthodontia and soccer practices to respond. "Almost. I've rerouted a satellite, but it's having trouble locating the signal. It's like it's underground or something. It keeps fading in and out, and it's really weak." Auggie heard a few more clicks of the keyboard, before, "Aha! Thank you baby. Okay, I can't give you the exact address, but it's on a street called, um, Vah Cal dee Lana? It looks like it's near a bigger street, let me see—"

"No," Auggie cut in, "I can find it from here. Thanks, I owe you one."

"Put in a good word for me, if you see the boss!" Scott cried as Auggie broke the connection.

~OOOOOO~

It took Auggie a few long minutes to find a taxi; he was living in one of the less-wealthy sides of the city, and so few taxis ever drove down his street, so he'd had to run to a more populated area, but finally he located one and, having forced himself back into the persona of Augusto, told the cabbie to get him to the place Scott had provided.

The ride felt longer than it probably was, but soon Augusto was standing in front of a very crowded nightclub. Augusto couldn't contain the growl that irrupted from deep in his throat, but he did manage to bolster his resolve by reminding himself that this needed to be done if he wanted to complete his mission. So, taking a deep breath, he joined the queue waiting to get into the club.

**A/N: I'm not usually one to ask for this, but frankly, I need some clue that people are watching this one if I'm ever going to finish it by the sixteenth, so I'm breaking one of my rules and asking for a review. Please? Something to get me through would go further than any energy-shake. **


	4. At All Costs

Chapter Four: At All Costs

Augusto stood at the back of the long, winding line, praying that Isabela wasn't going to bar-hop before he could get to her. He really didn't feel like calling the Agency for help twice in one night; they didn't think he was ready as it was. He displaced his weight onto his other foot and tried not to look around the person ahead of him to see if they were moving.

Twenty minutes later and only three feet closer to the entrance, Augusto had an epiphany. He had to get in, and he had to get in fast. The only way appeared to be if he cut to the front and tipped the two bouncers, but just as he was preparing to get out his wallet to see how many euro he was caring, he saw someone try to "tip" their way in. The man and his gorgeous date were rejected.

Augusto wanted to swear in frustration. If someone as sexy as that model couldn't get in even with ready money, how was he, with only fifty euro and still in the suit he'd worn while being dragged around Milan?

But his gut was telling him he had to get to Isabela. Somehow he _knew _tonight she was going to make sure he never got any further up the food chain of her father's organization. He wasn't sure how she would manage it—perhaps she would come in late tomorrow and pretend that he'd left her, or maybe she'd claim he'd slept through his job—but she'd do it, and he had to stop her.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Augusto repeated the overused mantra as he ducked out of the line and around the side of the club.

In the dark alley, another two bouncers stood guarding the back entrance. They were clearly used to people trying to get passed them, as they stood rigid and imposing, ready for anything, even if it were just a moth attracted by the glow of the single light above their heads. They wouldn't fall for the normal tricks; Augusto had to change his tactics.

In the shadow cast by the building next to the club, Auggie the soldier planned his attack. He shrugged off his jacket, not allowing himself a second to morn the likely loss of the garment. He didn't want to leave it in the rather musty alley, but it was too loose; his tighter shirt, thankfully a dark navy color, would have to do. He tucked his off-white tie into a pants pocket, judging he might need it for when he got into the club.

That done, Auggie yanked himself up onto the gently protruding ledge of a first-story window on the building beside the club. It took a little maneuvering and a lot of upper body strength, but he lifted himself onto the second story window, praising the classical Italian architecture for its many protrusions.

A silent, heart-stopping and adrenalized few minutes later, Auggie was above the guards' natural line-of-sight and out of the pool of light, and had made it to the other end of the alley two stories up and turned the corner so that he was now clinging to the back of the building rather than its side. Then came the hard part. He held his breath and prayed his training would save him once more as he launched himself off the window ledge.

He crashed against the outside of the wire fence that closed off the alley, his left knee slamming painfully into the metal—he would feel that in the morning—but he instinctively grasped the mesh. His heart was thundering in his chest, deafening him, as he climbed up to the top and waited until the last possible moment.

The bouncers, as expected, had reacted to the clanking. One of them stayed by the entrance while the other casually made his way to the fence. He was expecting to see an animal, not the image of a foot about to crack him in the jaw, and so he was out cold before he could even register the sensation.

Auggie would have congratulated himself on the near-perfect (he hadn't really had enough force to do it properly, though) flip-and-kick over the fence, but the first bouncer's partner was now aware of his presence.

It took Auggie longer than he'd care to admit to take down the second bouncer (he had had almost twice the muscle mass of Auggie, after all), but he was soon unconscious.

Knowing more security personal, alerted by the security camera he could now see, would be joining them very soon, Auggie didn't waste any time trying to hide the bodies or, even as much as he wanted to, gloating over his victory. Instead he brushed away the dirt that was thankfully pretty well hidden by the dark color of his shirt, re-tied his tie, straightened his pants (the lower left portion of his pants leg had ripped somewhere during his adventure, but he could do nothing about that now), and swiped one of the bouncer's cards to unlock the door. He took a deep breath, slipping back into Augusto Aspesi as he exhaled, and walked through into the din.

~OOOOOO~

Augusto had only been in few nightclubs, but the ones he had been in, he hadn't liked. This club was no different. The lighting, if black-lights, disco lasers, and spotlights could be called lighting, made seeing anything clearly impossible even without the added haze of the fog machines interspaced throughout the space. The airless humidity brought on by all the bodies made his contacts blur and slide around his irises with every pointless blink, while the heavy rhythm of the so-called music made Augusto's ears ache almost at once, and there were so many people! Augusto had thought he'd gotten passed the flinching at every touch, but he relapsed. Twice his persona fell away to his soldier's instinct before he gave up trying to be Augusto. It was taking all his energy to not panic and keep pushing his way into the mob.

He kept his mission forefront in his mind until that was all he could think about. _Find Isabela_. _Find her. Find. Find. Find._ The words spun around and around in his mind until he was as dizzy as a top.

Finally he could take it no more. He pushed his way to the bar, only to remember he was technically "on-duty" and therefore unable to get drunk, no matter how much he wanted to. At least the sight of one of the bartenders gave him an idea.

He forced himself to stand up tall, to ooze the confidence he didn't have like he'd seen his mentor, Mace, do all too many times. He wrenched Augusto back to the front of his being, taking refuge in the alias that had no reason to be uncomfortable in such a place.

"Have you seen a woman, about one and a quarter meters, maybe two with heels—brunette, blue eyes, gorgeous?" Augusto yelled over the "music" toward the bartender.

It took a moment for the man to respond, busy as he was filling drinks and talking to the usuals. "I've seen a lot of girls fitting that description tonight."

"I'm only looking for one." Augusto decided to try something else. He let his face fall slightly and modeled his expression to reflect a fraction of the panic he could still feel coursing through his gut. "I've got to meet her, you know? She's going to be my _one_!"

The bartender pulled his gaze from the current drink he was preparing to look at Augusto's face for the first time that night. "If you're talking about Isabela De Luca, I doubt that."

Augusto's heart leaped. "You know her name? Where can I find her? Is she still here?"

The man glanced right and left before replying. "Yeah, she's still here. Don't know for how much longer. I can't recall just where I saw her go, though…"

Augusto refrained from rolling his eyes, but pulled out his wallet. He still had the fifty euro. "Would this help jog your memory?"

The bartender looked a bit disgruntled at the meager bribe, but he took it anyway. "She went downstairs no more than twenty minutes ago."

"So she's still there?"

"Should be."

Augusto looked around, fruitlessly trying to locate the stairs or a sign to tell him wear to go. "How do I get there?"

The bartender returned to the drink he'd been neglecting. "Back wall, on the way to the toilets. But be careful. That place isn't like this one."

Augusto nodded his thanks before setting off toward the wall, buffered by the thought of being able to get out of the club and into his bed.

~OOOOOO~

The club under the club was different. It was like going from the party to the after party. If Auggie had been uncomfortable upstairs, he was practically petrified downstairs. But Auggie managed to convince himself that he could handle it, and took the last step into the basement.

The room was much less crowded, not quite as packed in, but the music was almost twice as loud. The speakers were blaring songs that had a bit of spice to them, Latin American melodies that were more appealing to Auggie's natural way of movement, even if his ears craved the peace of silence. He was just about to gather his confidence like an aura and let Augusto fall into place again, when he saw her: across the dance floor, effectively grinding into her partner, Isabela.

Auggie made his way toward her, forgetting about Augusto and his mission in his relief to have finally found her. Only when he was almost upon his goal did he realize that he didn't have a plan to extract her. He'd forgotten his number one rule: always have a plan! He froze, truly lost for the first time since he'd outgrown puberty. Then he "heard" Philip Mace's voice, somehow still "audible" though the pounding, bustling, tumult of the club. _Wing it, Rookie! _

Suddenly Auggie forgot about anything but attracting Isabela's attention. He forgot to be aware, forgot that he was an agent, forgot that he was supposed to be Augusto Aspesi.

He cut into her dance, letting the moves he'd learned at some forgotten place at some forgotten time come to the surface, and he danced. He allowed his body to move with the music, all thoughts of personal space and fears of physical contact dissolving into the heavy, sticky rhythm.

They danced until neither could breathe, and they were forced to knock their way to one of the few pieces of furniture littering the edges of the dance-pit. Only then did Isabela get a good look at her marvelous dance partner's face. She leapt up in surprise. "You! How—"

Augusto smiled. "I told you before, I go where you go."

"But I—" In the terrible lighting, Augusto couldn't be sure if she was angry or shocked, but he suspected a lot of both.

"I have my ways. Now, have you partied enough for one night?"

Isabela had plopped back into her seat, and for the first time Augusto registered just how much alcohol she'd consumed. "No," she mumbled, the adrenaline that had come with the dancing and finding her bodyguard had already dissipated enough to reveal her drunkenness. "I need to get drunk."

Augusto didn't feel like telling her she already _was _drunk. Instead he asked, "Why?"

She flagged another round of alcohol from a passing waiter. "Because Papà needs to see that you weren't here." She downed the drink in record time.

"But I am here."

"He won't know that."

Augusto knew it was pointless to argue with her, but he couldn't help it. "He will if you tell him."

"But I won't." Not seeing another passing waiter, Isabela stood up to walk to the bar herself. Augusto had to be impressed by her steadiness, even as he scooped her into his arms. "Put me down! My father will hear of this!"

"That's the point," Augusto replied, but he put her down while keeping a sturdy grip around her scantly clad waist as he made his way to the exit. It was difficult parting the mass of bodies with Isabela trying to get away, but he finally managed it.

Half an hour later they were in a taxi on their way to the De Luca townhouse. Somewhere along the way, Isabela had passed out, and when she awoke late in the afternoon the next day with a splitting headache, she was in her own room, still in her clothes from the night before for one of the few times she ever remembered.

**A/N: As you can see, I was so encouraged by the wonderful reviews, I was inspired. I wrote another chapter last night! I'm thinking one more chapter and it's done! Thank you oh so much for the reviews. Keep them coming and I guarantee you won't be disappointed. I should have chapter five up soon. Until then, chiao! **


	5. Everyone has a Price

Chapter Five: Everyone has a Price

Most of the time, Augusto could convince himself that he was just another lackey working for a family-owned-and-operated shipping company, but every once in a while, the situation he found himself in would smash that reality like a clay target in a skeet shooting tournament.

Sitting in the passenger seat, listening to Eduardo, one of the other "trusted" employees, reminisce about the "best" assignments he'd done for the De Luca family, on his way to turn a good customs official who'd done a couple of stupid things, was one of those situations.

As much as Augusto was dependent on stereotypes, he hated when they were true. It was almost too cliché to blackmail a port official, but as the newest go-to-guy for the Northern Italian mob, he did what he was told.

It hadn't been very difficult after the night with Isabela and the club to work his way into the organization. He'd built on the foundation he'd laid that night, put all his charms and tricks to work, until Isabela trusted him more than she thought she did. When her father had asked for her report on him, she'd been more favorable than she'd meant to be, and her plan to keep Augusto for a little while longer had failed while Augusto's plan to move up had succeeded. From there, Augusto had put his observations during the tedious negotiations last year and what he'd gleaned as an employee to work. Augusto might not be proud of what he'd done in the last few months, but he couldn't argue with the results. He was well into the De Luca family now, and so consequently, he was well on his way to completing his mission.

"…Can you believe that?"

Augusto pulled his gaze back into the car, focusing on the driver for the first time in almost forty minutes. Eduardo had been talking nearly non-stop since they'd left Celso's office, and Augusto was almost ashamed to admit he hadn't heard more than a word. Taking a chance, Augusto shook his head lightly in a who'd-believe-it kind of way. Eduardo didn't seem to be phased by the flimsy response as he continued his story about the police inspector who tried to bring down the family.

Augusto marveled at how the man could keep talking with such little reception. Then again, he mused, Eduardo was not exactly the kind of person Augusto would file under "normal". He was not what Augusto would have imagined a mafia henchman to be like, either.

Eduardo Bruneddi was short, tubby, and blond. He had a ruddy complexion and, even if Augusto were a single, thirty-five years old, pear-shaped woman terrified of dying alone without the comfort of lots of cats because of ferocious allergies, he wouldn't feel sexually attracted to him in the slightest. That being said, Augusto would have to agree that there was one aspect of Eduardo that made him the best "human resource worker" Celso employed: he knew how to push the right buttons.

Even before his monologue down the road of jobs-past, Augusto had heard the tales of Eduardo's many conquests. It was quite a resume. In fact, Augusto had spent the first portion of the car-ride wondering why he'd even been asked to accompany the man in the first place.

Augusto didn't realize he'd drifted away again until he felt the car stop.

"Ready to have some fun?" Eduardo asked, grinning in a way that put Augusto's thoughts to a shark hot on the trail of blood. It wasn't a pretty sight.

~OOOOOOO~

There was something familiar about the man standing in front of them. Augusto couldn't put his finger on it, and it was beginning to drive him crazy. With a memory as close to photographic as a guy could hope for, the thought of not placing a face he was sure he'd seen before was at best annoying and at worse disturbing. After precious minutes, Augusto forced himself to let it go for the moment and tune back in just as Eduardo was bringing out the "big guns".

"You've done it before, if you recall," Eduardo was saying.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the unfortunate and tantalizingly familiar customs official, Lorenzo Bianchi, replied.

Augusto could almost _see _Eduardo quiver with excitement as he dramatically looked to his left, signaling Augusto. Augusto reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He passed it to Eduardo, who held it out to Bianchi and asked, "Does this ring some bells?"

Bianchi took the proffered sheet of paper. His eyes widened perfectly as he recognized the bill of lading and his name as the authorizing official. Augusto couldn't help but be a little impressed when he kept his wits. "This doesn't prove anything."

Eduardo leaned forward and craned his neck as if reading the bill. He then rocked back on his heels and slapped his receding hairline in the universally recognized symbol of self-punishment. "How silly of me, I gave you the wrong one." He signaled Augusto to hand him the second, heavier sheet, which Eduardo flamboyantly unfolded before passing it over.

Augusto watched Bianchi's face go a shade paler and then flare red with anger. "Where did you get this?"

He gestured with the digitally enhanced picture of a cargo container that was clearly identified as the same container referred to on the bill of lading. The container was open, its cargo obviously not the bottles of wine detailed on the paperwork. Boxes of vintage wine don't look much like packages of rohypnol when they're opened, after all.

"My_ employer_ has his ways." Eduardo's obvious glee was chilling; Augusto couldn't help but think he loved his job way too much. Personally, Augusto had to quash the twinge of guilt that had arisen from deep in his chest at the look on Bianchi's face. He hadn't been the one to find the photo of the container, but he was the one who'd enhanced it enough for the word "Flunitrazepam" to be clear.

"That was a long time ago. It was a one-time thing."

"Yes, so we know." Eduardo snatched the photograph back and returned it to his breast pocket. "That's why we're asking for you to do it again. For a tidy sum, of course" For the third time, the intimidator glanced at Augusto, and Augusto pulled out the trump-card.

Eduardo clicked his tongue as he perused his target's bank account. "You really shouldn't gamble, you know. But if you must, a second job with a sizable salary, plus bonus when your services are required, would keep the bookies off your back."

Augusto saw the battle raging behind the melting mask of anger on his face. Sooner than the part of Augusto that forced his mind to believe he was working for an innocent business liked, he saw the man crack.

Back in the car a seeming lifetime later, Augusto had the undeniable urge to wash the slime off his body, preferably with iron wool.


	6. The Work of the Devil

**A/N: This story is officially done! It's taken awhile, but it's finally complete! Thank you to those who've reviewed, you've encouraged me, and an especially warm thank you goes out to mandy58. She's kept me sane.**

Chapter Six: The Work of the Devil

The water had been cold for a long time, his skin had been rubbed and scoured until only the psychological scum remained, and his landlady, Signora Vitti, would be hammering at the bathroom door at any moment, but still, Augusto remained, frozen, under the downpour. His thoughts were spinning around and around, none of the strands having the decency to allow themselves to be sucked into the drain like the water cascading through his hair and down his back.

Augusto thought about August's life before Camp Peary. He remembered every conversation with his mentor at the agency. He tried to recall where he'd seen Lorenzo Bianchi's face before. He berated himself for not coming up with a viable next step to the organization's destruction. He begged that he knew what he should tell Alfonso next time he had to report in, which was getting closer and closer with each tick of Signora Vitti's grandfather clock. But most of all, he heard his father telling him evil only wins when good men stop fighting, and he wondered if in the act of stopping evil, good men could become bad.

"Out! Out!" Signora Vitti's sharp voice cut through his suffocating thoughts.

Augusto quickly shut off the water, the heat of his shame thankfully hidden by the thick numbness of the cold.

~OOOOOO~

"It took you long enough!"

Augusto almost jumped at the sound of Isabela's voice. He spun around, clutching his towel tighter around his waist, to see the only female De Luca in this generation lounging luxuriously across his bed, clad only in scant, lacy lingerie. He couldn't help but watch her long legs tighten and flex as she stood.

This wasn't the first time Augusto had walked in to find Isabela practically naked on his bed. The first time Augusto had forced his libido down and refused her drunken invitation, but when she'd done it again, it had been harder. After he'd been promoted, she'd begun to show more often, as if stating her claim, unabashed by his stubborn refusals. Still he'd managed to remain the gentlemen his father had always told him to be.

Tonight, however, was different.

Augusto's frustration, self-loathing, and general feelings of uselessness were the final straw. The angel on his shoulder was drowned in the wake of the devil.

He let his towel drop.

~OOOOOO~

Once again, Augusto had to admit Philip Mace had been right. As the early streaks of dawn crept their way into his room and he felt Isabela lever herself off the bed to sneak back into real-life and her newest body-guard's obviously not-so-vigilant care, Augusto's mind was clearer than it had been in a very long time. Sometime during the night, he'd placed Lorenzo Bianchi's face, and when he'd awoken to Isabela's faint, but still-there perfume wake, he had a plan.

Augusto waited until he could no longer hear Isabela's fancy heels on the street outside before he moved. He quickly got dressed and, grabbing his cell on his way out of the room, went for a run.

He jogged as he punched in a number, covertly glancing around for any early risers who might overhear and, deciding it was safe, put the phone to his ear. Someone answered on the first ring.

"Wiseguy, customer two-one-five-eight. Did you receive my order?"

"It's secure. What do you need?"

"Arthur."

"One minute. I'll see if he's free."

A few minutes later, Auggie heard Arthur's voice. In lieu of a greeting, he said, "I need your authorization to leak a sleeper…"

~OOOOOOO~

Don Monteleone had traveled in person to Milan on his own insistence. He hadn't wanted to wait for Augusto to come to him this time. As soon as he'd read Augusto's encrypted email telling him there was news, he'd been only slightly less than ecstatic. Business was not doing too well, but he could feel whatever information Augusto had, it was going to turn the tides back to good fortune.

"Well?"

Augusto did another visual sweep of the area, but the old building was still empty save for the two of them and the rats. Still, something was making him twitchy, and he didn't like to be twitchy. He had to get this over with, fast. "He's talking to the CIA."

Alfonso's eyes lit up, and he leaned forward. "Are you sure?"

Augusto pulled a file out of his heavy trench coat.

Alfonso crooked an eyebrow just enough to pose his question without words.

"I have my ways," Augusto answered. His "ways" involved some impressive and risky hacking, topped off with a session of Photoshop and some consultations with a couple of techies, but Alfonso didn't need to know that. "Lorenzo Bianchi, also known as Vincent Dubois. He is a customs worker at the docks, but three years ago he was Jean-Luc Lefèvre's accountant."

The old man's inhaled quickly. Every businessman, shady or otherwise, knew the story of Jean-Luc Lefèvre. The French millionaire had been arrested for international bank-fraud among other things, and while not officially, definitely was sitting in a cell courtesy of the CIA.

"How do you know?"

"Just before he was arrested, Lefèvre was trying to settle a land dispute. He hired Mr. Callan to help them reach a decision. As usual, I accompanied him. Dubois was there."

Alfonso flipped through the portfolio Augusto had given him. It was full of records and transactions, payments, and, most convincingly, a photograph of the so-called Bianchi and the one and only Celso De Luca in a place much like where he and Augusto were standing now. "How do you know CIA? It could be a coincidence, yes?"

"Dubois _is _Bianchi, I am sure." Augusto then gestured for Alfonso to look at the last few pages in the file. "Almost a month ago, I was sent to put Bianchi on the payroll. Since then, if you will see, none of De Luca's transactions have been interfered with. All shipments have arrived safely. If I'm not mistaken, you have been having troubles with deliveries."

Alfonso's posture stiffened. "You said Bianchi works in customs. Maybe he is just good." His tone had developed a hint of disbelieve. Augusto was losing him, but he didn't panic.

"Look closer at the invoices. Only two of the shipments originated from the dock where Debois works. For the last year, De Luca has been having trouble with trades, and suddenly, everything is good—actually, better than good?" Augusto paused, considering and picking his words carefully. "May I ask, how has your luck been these last few months, especially this passed one?"

Alfonso's face puckered, and even in the dusty mid-afternoon light filtering into the room, Augusto could see a flush painting his face. "A smart man does not jump to conclusions," he finally replied.

Augusto bit back a smile and forced his face into a look of conviction. "True. A smart man tells the facts. The fact is, one of you is suffering while the other profits. A year ago your organizations formed a treaty of supposed mutual benefit—benefits that only one of you seem to be feeling. Whether or not he is talking to the CIA, the De Lucas are not upholding their end of the deal."

Augusto saw the truth dawning on his "employer's" expression. The cogs in the old man's head were turning. It was only a matter of hours before Alfonso betrayed his agreement with the De Lucas. He would pull out of the treaty and declare a cold war on the De Lucas.

Alfonso had fallen into the trap, and in only a few short moves, Augusto would be able to call checkmate.


	7. Means to an End

**A/N: This is it: my final post for at least a year. Despite my plans to edit this, it never really happened. Forgive me. The following four chapters have only been proofed once; any mistakes - well, they're going to stay for the foreseeable future. On another note, while I won't be able to respond to any reviews, I will read them, sooner or later. Leave a review, because one day I might need the attention. **

Chapter Seven: Means to an End

Since Alfonso had officially dissolved their contract and cut all ties with the De Lucas, the stress-level of the De Luca Shipping employees had increased almost three-fold. Augusto felt like he hadn't slept for weeks, even if it were closer to days. As a now upper-middle status worker with a reputation for getting things done, he'd been put in charge of researching alternative shipping means—in other words, strategies to avoid crossing paths with anyone and anything even remotely connected to the Monteleones. It was not an easy task, but Augusto couldn't have asked for a better way to get the information he needed to take these people down.

Augusto was on his way to present a pitch for transporting a shipment of what he was almost sure was military grade ammunition through a Portuguese port on its way to California where it would be delivered via truck into Mexico, when he heard voices wafting out of one of the many rooms in De Luca Shipping Headquarters.

"What will Papà say when he finds out, do you think?" Augusto had to crane his neck and focus all his attention on his hearing to make out Isabela's words. Her voice sounded cold and threatening, like a snake about to pounce on a terrified mouse. Augusto could imagine her eyes, those deep cerulean orbs—so unusual in a full-blooded Italian—as frigid as a nightmare, boring holes into their target. An involuntary shudder ran through his whole body. He'd _known_ there was a reason he'd never liked the De Luca princess.

Much to Augusto's surprise, it was Massimo, her older brother, who replied. "You wouldn't!"

"If you didn't want him to know, what were you doing with your tongue down that gigolo's gullet?"

"Michael is no gigolo!" For the first time, Augusto heard Massimo yell. He'd only had a few occasions to meet the De Luca heir, but he'd concluded that he had excellent emotional control. He always seemed to be sporting a mask of stoicism (so often, in fact, Mace had once told Auggie that he must be stupid). Now, though, there was fire in his voice, enough to make the chilly Isabela melt a bit.

"Then what is he?" Isabela recovered.

Augusto could almost feel Massimo stand a little straighter through the door. "He's my boyfriend, and I love him."

Isabela was clearly shocked. She didn't say anything for a long time—long enough for Augusto to suddenly remember to check his watch. He would have cursed had he not been in a position to be heard and consequently fired. He had less than two minutes to be set up and ready to present to Celso and his entourage. Even so, Augusto couldn't help but hear, "Oh, Papà will not be pleased…"

~OOOOOO~

Augusto's meeting with the boss and entourage had lasted too long, but at least they'd come to an agreement and Augusto had been able to confirm the contents of the containers. They had agreed to ship through Portugal, but there'd been some hitches with the idea of going through California. It had taken all of Augusto's knowledge and Agency-honed debate-tactics to bite back at the onslaught of mostly valid disagreements, but like Henry Fonda's character in _Twelve Angry Men_, he'd finally brought them around.

It was well into the wee hours of the night when Augusto was finally able to drag himself up the narrow stairwell to his rented quarters. The exhaustion was getting way too familiar for his taste, but he'd had worse in boot camp—or so he'd managed to convince his aching body.

Like he'd done countless times in the last six months, Augusto wanted to crumble on his somewhat small bed and sleep for a good hundred years. Unfortunately, his hopes instantly evaporated the moment he turned on the overhead light of his room.

"Mierda!" he swore, too tired to hide his shock.

While it had been a rather flattering surprise to find that Isabela hadn't just wanted a lay to put another notch on her belt (or however women record that sort of thing—Augusto had never asked) when she'd appeared at his door a few days after he'd first caved to her invitations, tonight was not a good time, no matter how much he wanted to clear his head.

On second look, however, Augusto realized that this wasn't like her usual booty-calls. She was wearing all her clothes, for once (even if that didn't mean she was much more covered), and she wasn't on his bed, but instead sitting on his one chair. Augusto almost breathed a sigh of relief.

"Is there something you need?" he asked, doing his best to sound polite. She was his boss' daughter, after all.

"You were in the meeting with my father." As usual with Isabela, it wasn't a question.

Augusto yanked his tie away from his neck and pulled off his trench coat. He wasn't going to waste any time when she finally left getting undressed. As he hung his coat on the coat-rack, he addressed her, hoping the faster he answered her questions, the sooner she'd leave. "I was."

"What did they decide?"

Augusto took a deep, soothing breath. "Don't you know already? Haven't you got an ear or eye in there?"

Isabela wasn't fazed. She stood in one sly movement and crossed the room, where she proceeded to "help" Augusto unbutton his shirt. "Yes. You," she breathed.

If Augusto hadn't been so tired, he might have found her latest advancement appealing, but he was _so _not in the mood. He didn't even feel like asking when he'd become her mole. But he did allow himself to admire the irony of being—what was it now?—a quadruple agent?

"The newest route to Mexico is through Portugal and California. It will avoid the Monteleones' course through Greece and directly into Mexico."

"Through American customs?" Isabela's voice peaked an octave higher than her normal range, and Augusto felt another stab of a no-doubt oncoming migraine. "They are absolute idiots!"

"It was the only way to avoid Monteleone," Augusto argued weakly, trying to telepathically order Isabela out of his room.

"Drugs or arms?" Isabela asked out-of-the-blue. She'd been pacing for almost a minute, and Augusto had been hopeful that she'd received his silent command.

Augusto wanted to press his fingers into his temples, but he couldn't risk showing such weakness to a woman like Isabela. "Arms. Military arms."

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Isabela stamped her foot and a thin coating of dust showered from the ceiling down around her feet. "They _never _listen! Momentary gratification does no good!"

Augusto's ears perked and his thoughts of sleep retreated into the background for the first time all night. "What do you mean?"

"Papà! He and his board of so-called advisors are going about this the _wrong _way! They aren't reading between the lines!"

"What lines?" Isabela was becoming too frantic, her speech too jumbled for Augusto's sleep-deprived mind to follow.

"The records! Can they not see what's happening? They're closing in—now is _not _the _time _to be switching routes! Weapons are too easily traced, don't you see? They might be profitable, but they are too hot to be kept a secret for very long. It's time to pull out of that area, wait for it to calm down. The Americans are too aware—they make it unsafe. No matter how you do it, eventually you will get caught, and the risk won't be worth the meager profits!"

"What are you saying?"

"How do you not see?" Again, Isabela cracked to higher octave. Her vocal range was impressive. Much to Augusto's ears' relief, however, she forced herself to inhale deeply through her nose before she explained in a lower and smoother pitch.

"They've taken the illegal actions as far as they can go." Seeing Augusto's eyebrows slowly approaching the middle of his forehead and his mouth puckering slightly, Isabela glanced around, searching for another way to explain.

"It's all a scale, one of those old ones, but with three dishes, dishes on the sides—illegal and legal actions—and one—the law—on the top. Both sides of the legal system earn profits. They keep putting weights in the illegal dish, and soon the law is going to tip, which will force the legal dish to rise; the more they try to fill the illegal dish, the higher and more insurmountable getting weights into the legal plate will be, and the steeper the law plate will tip. Eventually the law plate will tip over and the whole act is ruined. Get it?"

Augusto blinked. He wasn't sure where exactly he'd gotten lost, but he was pretty sure he'd just found the ace in the deck. Somehow he had to get that ace in his hand. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his exhaustion taking a backseat to the mastermind he'd spent thirty years developing. "But what if you add more to the legal side, won't the law eventually tip toward it?"

Isabela hesitated, seeing the flaw in her metaphor. "Having the law on our side is always worth it."

"So really all you're saying is that the time for illegal activities is over?"

"No, what I said was that it's time to focus more on the legal so that eventually the risks of working above the law won't be so high. They need to legitimize the business again."

"And how would you say they do it?"

"Expand! Diversification! Use the money gathered through the shadier business actions of the last decades to move away from just _shipping_. Pharmaceuticals, airlines, real estate on a grander scale—these are where the profits can be made with greater long-term payoffs and lower-risk short-term."

Augusto was getting it now, and he liked where his mind was going. For the first time in a long time, he was beginning to see the end of the tunnel. "What about the current activities?"

"The guns? Get rid of them. It's much too expensive to keep it up. Contrary to my father's belief, respect is only as good as the money, and bad money isn't worth the wallet it's in." Isabela looked vindicated by Augusto's expression. She knew she was right, but it was clear to Augusto's trained eye that she'd just convinced herself.

Augusto stared into Isabela's eyes, which were as bright and fiery as they'd been icy that morning. He decided to go for it. "How will you get them to see this?"

Isabela seemed to deflate in front of Augusto's very eyes. She glanced around the room as if looking for an answer, or maybe a way to avoid it. Finally she mumbled, "That's the problem; Papà will never listen."

Augusto swallowed subtly. He knew where he'd have to take this. "So you'll have to wait for him to resign?"

"Hah!" Her snort of amusement held no laughter. "Papà will never leave. He will live to be a hundred."

Augusto took another tactic. "But this is all hypothetical anyway, isn't it? Just say he did."

Isabela nodded, but her body language was speaking another story. After a moment, she voiced her thoughts. "Even if he did leave, Massimo will take his place. I'm just the youngest, the _girl_." She practically spit the word, years of being all but ignored by her old-fashioned father making hostility drip from the statement.

This was the moment. Augusto knew he'd remember this second for the rest of his life, and he knew he would always regret his next actions, but good men must do something if evil is to lose. This was the chance he'd been looking for, hoping for, praying for. So he made himself stand tall and say, "What if Massimo weren't there?"

"I can't—" Isabela froze, her eyes widening and her mouth going lax. "Maybe…" her sentence trailed off, while her gaze stared into the ether. Suddenly she sprang back to the present. "I have to go."

She swung around, looking for her bag. Augusto handed it to her without saying a word. She was gone before the sensation of the cloth against his fingers had faded.

Augusto heard her rush out of the boarding house, still glued to the floor beside his wardrobe, his open shirt still subtly flapping with every shallow breath. Less than thirty minutes ago all he'd wanted was to fall into bed, but now… He needed a shower, a burning, torturous shower.


	8. In the Pursuit

Chapter Eight: In the Pursuit

Augusto's cell phone vibrated in his pocket, informing its owner he had just received a text message. Augusto smoothly turned away from his trading routes research for the organization/company and pulled out his phone, sparing a glance to make sure the only other person in the room, a gossip named Pasquale who's only real use was undefined at best, was busy. Deciding that picking his nails was occupying Pasquale as well as he could hope, Augusto read the message.

_Gustavo's Pizzeria! Call now to receive your free breadsticks!_

Augusto checked his watch, trying to decide if it was too early to get lunch. It wasn't, he concluded. "Hey, I'm gong to lunch. You want anything?"

"No, I'm good." His office-partner shrugged and continued with his primping.

~OOOOOOO~

Augusto made his way to an out-of-the-way deli he'd scouted for just this occasion, and ordered a meatball grinder to solidify his alibi if anyone saw him. As he waited for his sandwich at a table far enough away from the street and the bar for privacy, he pulled out his phone again.

"Yeah, Wiseguy. Customer two-one-five-eight. Have you got my records?"

"It's secure. Hey Anderson. I've been instructed to transfer you to the DPD office as soon as you called in." Brad, the DEA techie who'd picked up, didn't wait for Auggie to ask why he'd been contacted.

Auggie heard a click and then a short silence before, "Anderson? That you?"

"Sì," Auggie replied as the waitress brought him his fresh sandwich. He waited until she'd ducked back into the kitchen before continuing, this time in English. "Simpson, right? Anyone with you?"

"You remembered me? I'm flattered. I thought all you guys couldn't be bothered by us techies." Despite his words, there was definite amusement in Scott's tone. His good nature brought a little smile to Auggie's expression, but before Auggie could comment, someone broke in.

"Anderson, this is Joan Campbell. I'm the head of the Domestic Protection Division." Auggie was surprised; he'd thought Ron something-or-other headed the DPD. Then he remembered Scott's announcement that things were changing at the Agency.

"It's Auggie, ma'm," Auggie replied.

"Then it's Joan."

"And now we've got the pleasantries out of the way, let's get down to business." Auggie recognized the voice of his direct superior, Arthur Campbell and, now that he thought about it, Joan's husband. "Auggie," Auggie could tell the nickname was awkward for Arthur, and he was kind of flattered that Arthur would use it anyway, "we thought you should be read in. The DPD will be coordinating with us on this one. We have received the plans you sent—"

"Good 'cription, man! It took us almost two hours to decrypt and we had the basic code!" Scott interrupted. Auggie had little doubt that he'd just been on the receiving end of one of Arthur's stares when Scott abruptly shut his mouth.

"And Joan and I concur with your plan," Arthur continued as if he hadn't been interrupted.

Joan spoke up next. "I've authorized a small surveillance team. They will meet the ship when it arrives and track the material to its buyer. There they have a green light for interrogation."

"And if they don't give us what we want?" Auggie didn't allow himself to be squeamish, even if the thought of what could happen in a CIA interrogation was bile-worthy. "If we are going with my plan, they'll need to be capable of testifying."

"Hopefully it won't come to that. But if they don't want to testify, I'm sure you can find others," Joan replied.

"And implicating Celso? He might do a lot of the business himself, but he knows how to keep his nose clean."

"That's why you're there," Arthur broke in. "From what we can tell from your and others reports, Celso De Luca is a paranoid totalitarian. He had to have put his seal of a approval somewhere—find it."

Auggie wanted desperately to put his head in his hands, and had he been anyone else, maybe he would have, but Auggie was nothing if not a trooper. "I'll do my best, sir."

"Good."

"When did you say the shipment will reach California?" Joan asked.

"ETA is sometime in the early morning of the nineteenth."

"That leaves you less than five days to find irrefutable proof, Lieutenant." Arthur seemed not to realize that he'd called Auggie by his military rank, but if he had, he didn't mention it and Auggie didn't want to risk correcting him.

"Right, sir, I know. I'll have found something by then." Auggie prayed he hadn't just lied to his boss. "Goodbye sir, Joan, Scott." Auggie was about to hang up, but Arthur stopped him.

"Anderson."

"Sir?"

"Nice work."

Auggie couldn't hold back the smile that pulled his cheeks up toward his ears. It took all his energy to control his voice as he said, "Thank you, sir." Then he heard the line disconnect.

~OOOOOOO~

One thing Augusto would not miss when he returned home was the stench of garlic that seemed to follow him around everywhere now. On his way to his room two nights later, he made a detour to the bathroom to brush his teeth in an attempt to get the day's garlic-soaked meal off his tongue.

Five minutes and a couple of sticks of peppermint gum later, Augusto opened his laptop. He plugged in the hard-drive he'd copied all the documents from Celso's computer to while the man and his entourage were out yesterday. He'd nearly been caught when one of Celso's assistants had burst into the office looking for something for the Don, but thankfully the guy had been too frantic to notice Augusto crammed beneath the desk.

It was only a matter of a few minutes for Augusto to crack the documents' encryption. Like Scott had noticed, encryptions and decryptions were his specialty. The documents, however, didn't yield as many results as he'd hoped. There were a few drafts of contacts, some accounting records—Augusto had spent a good while looking for number discrepancies, but it appeared that those were the good books, not the bad—and for some reason, a rather badly half-written romance novel that Augusto hadn't at all expected to see on Celso De Luca's personal computer.

Just as Augusto had feared, Celso wasn't old-fashioned only in the areas of equality, but also when it came to technology. Celso was one of the types of people like the Dean of Admissions Auggie had worked for during a semester of college, the sort of person who didn't trust a computer as far as they could spit them.

"Damn," Augusto growled. He'd have to break into Celso's personal files. Unfortunately, Arthur had been right when he said Celso was paranoid. Augusto would stake good money that not only did he have a top-of-the-line safe, but that he kept all documents relating to a current shipment, legal or otherwise, in said safe until the transaction was carried out.

But first thing's first: find out what type of safe Celso had. That mission turned out to be easier than Augusto thought it would be. All he'd needed to do was hack into Celso's banking records. He'd paid a large amount of money for a 2006 stainless steel safe with both right and left fingerprint biometric pads and five digit number access.

Augusto breathed a sigh of relief—biometric fingerprint readers—he could work with that. But first, he resolved when his next inhale turned into a yawn, he would sleep.

~OOOOOOO~

Every trainee is taught the basics of safe cracking at the Farm, but the safe in front of Augusto was no ordinary safe. This safe was high-tech with risky repercussions if the cracker was caught. Fortunately, the agent in front of the safe was no ordinary trainee.

Celso was clever, there was no doubt about it. It had taken Augusto precious minutes to find the safe. He'd been expecting the same safe he'd researched, not the old combination vault. As a result, he'd thought the old model that looked like it had been used and loved in the seventies was decoration. It was only after he'd scoured the whole office suit, and was starting to believe his first determination that Celso would keep everything in the office was wrong, that it hit him that the old safe was a decoy.

He'd taken a huge chance picking the combination lock without even a stethoscope, but it had paid off, and thanks to being the youngest in a house of five boys among other things, it hadn't taken long and his hands weren't any sweatier from the delay.

Inside the old safe was the new, stainless steel model of security. It was quite a looker, its sides sleek, its two thumb-readers like gapping eyes, with the keypad glowing and the screen like a mouth.

Augusto surveyed the setup again, reviewing his plan. It was nearly three o'clock. There would be a guard change in a little less than thirty minutes—he had plenty of time. He leaned in closer to observe the thumb pads, pleased at what he saw.

The most difficult thing about the safe was that all the inputs had to be read within a three second interval. He'd have a very short window to get everything in.

He took a deep breath and got to work on removing the metal plate just beneath the digital screen at the bottom. According to his research, the number one flaw of this particular model was that it didn't have an alarm over its number impute wires. In other words, Augusto was safe to remove the panel and tie in his modified/MacGyvered code sequencer. It had originally been a hard-drive containing Auggie's personal decryption program, but due to the short timeframe and not being able to access CIA resources, Augusto had turned it into a spy's (and thief's) best friend. It was agonizingly slower than a CIA-issued cracker, but soon it was on the last digit.

Augusto lined his latex-gloved thumbs up with their respective pads, and the moment the last digit appeared on the screen, Augusto put his fingers down on to the pads and prayed to whomever that the last fingerprints had been as clear as they appeared before.

Something _caplunk_ed, and Augusto breathed for the first time in a lifetime.

~OOOOOO~

"Have you been here all night again, Mr. Aspesi?" Paulo, the night guard asked when he caught sight of Augusto exiting the office building twenty minutes later.

Augusto smiled, the adrenaline comedown adding even more weight to his story. "I didn't mean to. I must have fallen asleep doing some more research for the Boss. You know how it is—nautical maps, and all."

"Can't say I do, but you look beat."

Augusto nodded slightly and smiled faintly again. "Yeah, going to bed now."

Augusto waited until he'd cleared the building's vicinity to congratulate himself on his plan and exit strategy. He'd never been gladder that he'd often had to pull all-nighters lately and his presence at work at four o'clock in the morning wasn't suspicious.


	9. They All Fall Down

.

Chapter Nine: They All Fall Down

"Well?" Scott asked as soon as Auggie's call had been forwarded to his desk. "What'd you find?"

"I'm sending the first page to you now," Auggie replied. He scanned the first piece he'd found and ran the standard encryption before emailing it over. A second later—Auggie had to appreciate the amount of bandwidth available to the Agency—he heard Scott confirm delivery. He sent the rest of the set, ten pages of evidence total, one by one, and then waited for the confirmation of decryption.

"Holy cow-patty!" Scott exclaimed as soon as his computer finished with the first decryption. "This is _gold_!"

Auggie grinned. "I know."

"No, really! We, or you guys upstairs, can even trace him to shipments to al-Qaeda! How did you even find these? What kind of paranoid boss-man keeps this sort of incriminating evidence in his safe?" Scott's tone had shifted dramatically into musing. "I mean, if I were doing this stuff, I'd at least keep it in a safe-deposit box or train station, or something…"

"Now we know where to look for your skeletons," Auggie couldn't help but interject. He'd had more adrenaline highs and lows tonight/today to last him a week in a war-zone, what with finding the mother-load of evidence, coping them, putting the originals back in the safe, getting out, mailing a set to the Agency with priority delivery, and now setting up the digital transfer, to keep awake without speaking.

"Hah, hah. No, really, why would he have all of this stuff just laying around?"

Auggie shrugged and got to work more heavily encrypting the documents and saving them to an external flash drive before deleting them completely from his computer. After a couple of seconds of thought, he replied. "He thought he was safe. He's an old-fashioned guy; he's still living in the time of the mafia, where no one could touch him."

"Guess it's time for him to face the music, huh?" Scott watched as his computer translated the final page into readable script before printing it out for their superiors. "I'm gonna give this to Joan. Later?"

"Later," Auggie agreed. He was beginning to like that DPD techie. It would be nice to have someone other than Mace with whom he could share a beer when he got back to the Agency.

~OOOOOOO~

March twenty second, two days after the Mexican cartel who'd bought the shipment of weapons had been brought in for questioning and had positively confirmed that the De Luca Shipping Company had sent them the weapons, the evidence against the Company and Celso had been covertly presented to the highest official in the Italian government Arthur knew.

Augusto knew it was only a matter of time before Celso would be arrested under charges he couldn't wriggle away from, but he showed up at his desk as he had ever since he'd been assigned his task.

"Hey, did you hear?"

Augusto's heart skipped a beat. Had Celso been warned about the charges, about his impending arrest? He kept his voice steady. "Hear what?"

"Apparently Massimo is gay!" Pasquale was almost jumping with glee at the chance to spread gossip. Sometimes Augusto truly wondered if he was actually a woman who only looked (and smelled) like a man.

"So?" Augusto knew what was coming, but he sincerely hoped that for once one of his plans had failed. No such luck.

"You know how Massimo's been in training for his father's job since he was little?" Augusto nodded as a weight settled in his gut. "Well, looks like he wasted thirty years of his life!"

"He's been disowned?" Augusto tried to sound surprised, but he was feeling too miserable to be sure if he succeeded.

"Yup! I heard it became official yesterday when he changed his will. It all goes to Isabela now. Can you imagine working under her when the old man croaks?" Pasquale gave Augusto no sign that he cared about the ramifications of what had just happened, and that made Augusto almost as sick as knowing that he'd been the catalyst to such a reaction.

~OOOOOO~

Three days later, Celso had been arrested and the "Family" was in shambles. Isabela had taken her seat as the CEO of the company, Massimo had run away to France with his boyfriend, and all the company records had been sent to the Italian police for review.

Another couple of days after that, Alfonso Monteleone finally realized he'd walked into checkmate, and the Monteleone organization, unable to keep up without the partnership of the De Lucas, had been forced to declare bankruptcy.

A week after the Monteleone's declaration was finalized and nearly seven months since he'd arrived, Augusto Aspesi appeared to have followed the trend and abandoned ship. He disappeared in the middle of his flight to Spain, but a man matching his description was seen boarding a plane destined for Washington D.C.


	10. Epilogue

Epilogue:

August Anderson sat on the same stool at Allen's Tavern he'd occupied three years ago to celebrate his first week at the Central Intelligence Agency. In some ways, things were eerily the same—he was alone, the tavern was quiet—Auggie almost expected Philip Mace to sit down and ask him how his week had been. But at the same time, things were so very different.

Three years ago, the man sitting in that stool was only Lieutenant August Anderson. Today, he was still Lieutenant Anderson, but he was also Augusto Aspesi, Arnold Transy, Austin Argyle, Lance Addison, Peter Smith, and Juan Garcia. He wasn't "Rookie" or "Hey you!," he was Auggie. He was the master of one-nightstands, causal suits, and occasional sweater-vests. He was the chameleon three times recognized for his work, and the Agency's up-and-coming. He no longer worked at the boxlike desk that faced the midpoint of the Department of European Affairs' wall, but at the desk at the back of the Domestic Protection Division's bullpen, in the ideal position for surveillance and cover. He'd turned thirteen assets, made countless contacts, completed a host of missions, and cemented his name in the never-to-be-published history books.

He'd returned a veritable hero after his Italian mission, only to find he'd been transferred. Scott's words from all those months ago had turned out to be prophetic, as he had been moved to the DPD. It had been a shock to find the legendary Philip Mace had retired from the Agency two months into Auggie's mission, but Auggie had forced himself to understand. Now the old ex-agent worked at the premiere private security firm on the eastern seaboard, and every couple of weeks he and Auggie would eat lunch together at a local café and Mace would do his part to keep Auggie sane.

Life was far from perfect—Auggie still had the nightmares, just as vividly as they'd always been, just as Mace had once said he would—but he'd learned to drink tea and sex his way through the really bad days as per Mace's advise. He worked hard, pushed himself to the extremes so that no one could ever say he wasn't worthy of his recognition, so that he'd never have to feel the pain of underestimation again. He worked long hours; if he wasn't on an overnight mission, he was often the first at his desk in the morning, and almost always the last out at night.

Or he would be until tomorrow.

Little did he know, in less than twenty-four hours, his boss would meet him on his way into the building and hand him a folder and send him to a certain conference, where he'd first lay eyes on the woman who'd knock down the upcoming row of dominoes that would lead to the next set of crossroads. The next stage was about to begin.

**A/N: There you go: the second and last story in the "Rookie Auggie" trilogy. I hope you've enjoyed his journey. Maybe you'll see me again in 2012. Until then, goodbye fanfic. Au revoir! **

**Comic. **


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